


A House in the Country

by erebones



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, Kid Fic, M/M, Trans Felix Hugo Fraldarius, Trans Male Character, Vignette, background Ingrid/Dorothea, background claude/lorenz - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-12 21:33:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28517208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erebones/pseuds/erebones
Summary: The first few years of residence at the Fraldarius Estate, as told by those living there.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 9
Kudos: 106





	A House in the Country

**Author's Note:**

> commissioned by @l2vnt for @orgiastique on twitter! thanks for letting me go absolutely buck wild with this one <3

_The Fraldarius Estate, Spring 1186_

Say what you will about the late Duke Fraldarius, but he knew how to run a tight ship. Even after his untimely death, the great machine of his estate ticked along like a well-wound clock. Crops flourished, staff were paid on time, and the strain of prolonged continental conflict only barely tested their grain stores, which were well-guarded and well-maintained under the watchful eye of the Fraldarius steward, Mr. Mori.

The man himself had a dour look, as befitted the right hand of the right hand of the king—Goddess rest him—but those who knew him thought him a fair man, level-headed in passing judgement, and not easily disturbed by the goings-on of a large estate such as Fraldarius. Thus, when Ariadne opened the door to the Duke’s study for its weekly dusting and found Mr. Mori sitting at the desk, head in hands, she beat a hasty retreat and went to find Mrs. Featherby.

“Why, child, whatever is the matter?” Mrs. Featherby asked upon seeing her. The housekeeper even put aside her tatting for the occasion, and bent her full attention toward the flustered young woman. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Something is terrible wrong, marm,” Ariadne declared, fanning herself with her duster. “I was just upstairs, for the dusting, and what did I find but Mr. Mori porin’ over his papers, lookin like he’d just had the worst news in the world! Don’t know what sort of news it could be, with the war done—he don’t have no secret mistress, does he?”

“Certainly not to my knowledge,” Mrs. Featherby said stiffly. She rose from her chair and smoothed her apron flat. Mr. Mori had been the steward of Fraldarius house for as long as she’d been housekeeper—even longer, for she remembered his gloomy look and clip-heeled walk down the stone stairs to the scullery, and how all the maids would scatter before his purposeful stride; not in fear, but in a respect well-earned. “Go and tell Mrs. Crocombe I said you’re to have a hot toddy and a moment by the fire to settle yourself.”

Distracted from potential gossip by the prospect of a treat and some time off her feet, Ariadne sprang to life and rattled down to the kitchens, remembering to bob a curtsey at the last moment. Mrs. Featherby sighed and put a steadying hand to her lace cap. She’d hoped for a restful week, what with the war’s end and all, but Fraldarius house had never been the sort to lie quietly, even in peaceful times.

The second floor of the manor house was eerily quiet as she made her way to the study. This was partly thanks to the heavy Dagdan carpets underfoot, a particular favorite of the Duchess (Goddess rest her). But with the family gone, or what remained of it, there was little reason to keep the bedrooms and nurseries and such all spic and span, and apart from a weekly dusting and monthly rotating of tapestries, there was no need for anyone to be upstairs except for Mr. Mori. Mrs. Featherby paused a moment by the study door, but the unearthly quiet betrayed no sound from within. So, with a little pristine motion to settle her skirts, she rapped her knuckles on the door and awaited a response.

“Come,” said Mr. Mori after only a moment of hesitation. He sounded composed enough, and when she entered, Mrs. Featherby judged his appearance to be as placid and unruffled as ever. But Ariadne’s distress was still fresh in her mind, and while the girl was a bit of a goose for gossip, she had a good head on her shoulders; she wasn’t the sort to make up fancies for her own amusement.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Mori,” Mrs. Featherby said crisply. Behind her calm expression her mind was whirling, trying to come up with some excuse for her intrusion without giving poor Ariadne away—but as it happened, no excuse was necessary.

“I’m glad you’ve here, Annie,” Mr. Mori said, which was precisely the moment Mrs. Featherby realized he was _quite_ flustered, perhaps even shaken. He was as much a stickler for convention as she—they had to be, with such a large house to maintain between them—and he only used her first name when straits were dire indeed. “I’ve just had a letter from the Duke.”

Mrs. Featherby blinked. “I beg your pardon? His Grace…”

“Not Rodrigue, Goddess rest him.”

“Goddess rest him,” Mrs. Featherby murmured in agreement, nearly an afterthought by now. “Not… Felix, surely?”

“The very same. _Duke_ Felix Hugo Fraldarius writes to say that he is on his way from Fhirdiad and expects to arrive within the week. With…”

Mrs. Featherby shut the door and came further into the room, drawn in by the faint shock coloring Mr. Mori’s otherwise steady voice. “With?”

“With his husband. Lord Sylvain of Gautier.”

With a _oomph_ of displaced air, Mrs. Featherby sat heavily upon one of the velvet-cushioned chairs situated by the desk for visitors of state. She was surely the first woman of her rank to make use of the furniture this way, but propriety was far from her mind. “Surely you’re mistaken.”

Mr. Mori laughed dryly. “I assure you, madam, I am not. Here. You may read it for yourself.”

He handed over the letter, and though it had been meant for the steward’s eyes only, Mr. Featherby devoured it, noting the familiar short, spiky strokes of the letters, and the occasional splotch of ink upon the page. Little Lord Felix had never had much patience for quill and ink, no matter how often she pleaded with him that the sons of Dukes were expected to maintain a certain standard of elegance with the more delicate arts.

_To Mr. Kaede Mori of House Fraldarius—_

_With my father gone and the war done, I have seen fit to wrap up my business in Fhirdiad and return to the Fraldarius estate to take residence there, as befitting the title of Duke and Knight of the Realm. I bring with me a few retired soldiers in need of rehabilitation, and my husband, Lord Sylvain Jose Gautier, who I believe is well known to you._

_Please ensure the house and the accounts are organized for our arrival. I know not what state my father left things in, but I recall that you are an honorable and trustworthy man, and I expect to find everything in order by the time I arrive._

_-Felix_

Against her better judgement, Mrs. Featherby blinked back a few tears. Before being elevated to housekeeper, little Felix had been her charge, and a more cheerful, energetic young boy could not be found in the entire realm, she was sure. He was matched in rambunctiousness only by his friends, little lady Ingrid and the Gautier spare. Lord Sylvain, now. _Goodness._

“Dear me,” she said, setting down the letter as the reality of the situation came over her. “A battalion of injured men, who will need rooms and medical attention no doubt, and a _husband_?” She tutted to herself and skimmed the brief note again. “No disrespecting the man, you understand, but I’ve heard as many tales of Lord Gautier as I’m sure you have, Mr. Mori. I shall have to keep a tight leash on my girls—”

“Mrs. Featherby,” Mori intoned, “I understand your reservations, but let us look upon this new venture with as open a mind as we can manage. Lord—er, Duke Felix is certainly not the sort of man to entertain cuckoldry.”

“I’m sure you are right,” Mrs. Featherby said faintly, though privately she was not so sure. The Gautier and Fraldarius families had long been intertwined, which meant their households had also seen some overlap over the years. She had heard things. And despite the new Duke’s reputation for his hard and inflexible manner, she remembered the boy beneath the chitin. She knew him to be soft despite the hard outer layers he’d built up over the years, and she would not see him heartbroken over a blowsy skirt-chaser of a husband, that was for certain. “Well. There is certainly much to do before they arrive.” She stood and patted down her skirts, putting thoughts of cuckoldry out of her mind. “The accounts are in good order, I trust?”

Mr. Mori sniffed. “Of course they are.”

“But you have reservations.”

“Damn your keen eye, woman. Aye, I have _reservations_. The new Duke was not on good terms with his father. Let us say, kindly, that I do not know what sort of man to expect.”

“Mr. Felix hasn’t been home in a very long time,” Mrs. Featherby allowed. “But, as you say, we shall keep an optimistic attitude. Good day, Mr. Mori. There’s not a moment to waste.”

Mr. Mori bowed as she left, though she did not see it. He regarded the letter once more, lying face up on the desk—then he shut it into a drawer and got back to work. As the good woman had said, there was much work to be done, and only a few days left to do it.

_The Fraldarius Estate recovery wing, Summer 1186_

A gentle rap upon the door signalled the arrival of the maid with afternoon tea. Elias Corrim, lately of the Kingdom Brave Lance Company, set aside the book he’d been pretending to read and straightened his shoulders against the pillow. “Come in!”

In slipped Ariadne, a familiar face by now. Some of the tension in him relaxed as she bustled to the side table and began laying out tea and cold sandwiches. Ari was his favorite of the various maids assigned to the recovery wing of Fraldarius House, partly because she was pretty—after all, he was only human—and partly because she didn’t bat an eye at the missing leg or the strange fears that gripped him sometimes, even in the middle of the day.

Also, she was an endless fount of gossip, a boon to someone still bedridden as he shook off the last vestiges of the fever that nearly took his life. What irony that would have been, to survive a war only to be betrayed by his own body.

“How’s the readin’ coming?” Ariadne asked once everything was settled and Elias was nibbling obediently at a cheese sandwich. She pulled up a chair without asking and produced a bit of embroidery from her apron pocket, settling in to keep him company for a while.

“It’s coming,” he lied. “Slowly. I hit a bit of a dull spot.”

“Henriette assured me it’s very exciting,” Ariadne said doubtfully.

“Have you not read it yourself?”

“Oh, nay.” She laughed, but there was a tinge of hesitation to it as she bowed over her work. “I’m not much for readin. The words get all scrambled on the page and give me the most awful headache.”

“Ah.” Elias chewed thoughtfully, then swallowed. “My little brother is—was the same way. Ma was always after him to practice his letters, but they always seemed to come out backwards.”

Seeing that Elias wasn’t going to mock her for it, Ariadne brightened considerably. “Mrs. Featherby despairs of my handwriting—but I always say, doesn’t matter if I can read’n write as fast as one of Mr. Mori’s people, all’s I gotta worry about is keeping the house clean and the Duke’s men in good order.” She tipped him a wink. “That’s you.”

Elias hid a smile behind his teacup. “I know that’s not all you do. And you shouldn’t dismiss your own work, you know—you’re an excellent nurse, and very perceptive. I don’t think anything happens under this roof that misses your eye.”

Ariadne blushed with pleasure and her needle flew more furiously, though as far as he could tell she was in no danger of pricking herself. “Maybe so.”

“ _Maybe so_ , she says. I wager you’ve got a tale or two to tell, Miss Ari.”

“Sly fox,” she muttered, though she was fairly glowing with praise. “Tryin to get dirty secrets out of me.”

“I never said _dirty_!” Elias exclaimed in mock horror. “ _Are_ they dirty secrets?”

“Tsk! Maybe, maybe not.” She sniffed, pretending to prevaricate, but it only took a few minutes of expectant silence for her to break. “Oh very well, but you _must_ not tell another soul, it’s quite shockin.”

“There’s nothing on this green earth that can shock me anymore, Miss Ari.”

“Don’t go makin' promises, Mr. Corrim, I reckon I have one or two that’ll make you blush pretty as a peony.” She edged her chair closer to the bed so that she could whisper and still be heard. “You know Mrs. Featherby is quite particular about the dusting.”

“Aye.”

“Well it’s _my_ particular job to do the library once a week, to dust the spines and polish the woodwork and trim the wicks and all. As my eye is the best for details, she says. Well what do you know, I was tradin' out some of the burnt candles for fresh when I hear someone come in and slam the door! I was about to scold em, those doors are _old_ —hand-carved mahogany! From Dagda, Mr. Mori says. But then what do I hear, but the Duke’s voice.” Her own voice dropped even lower, so that Elias had to lean close to hear. “ _And his husband._ ”

Elias could guess, by the look on her face, what sort of direction the story was about to take. Under normal circumstances he might balk—such talk, particularly concerning his commanding officer, was not the done thing—but Felix wasn’t his commander any longer, and besides, their battalion had seen and heard enough on the campaign trail that very little could shock him.

“Go on,” he said, when it seemed Ariadne was awaiting his signal.

“ _Well_.” She was prettily peony-pink herself by now, but she pressed on anyway, her needle slowed to a crawl. “At first I’m thinkin' they’re having a fight, but they’re talking so low I can’t make it out. Then I think, why, p’raps they’re discussin’ some important matters of state and I shouldn’t be hearing it, but by then it was too late and I was afraid of makin' myself known, so I just hunkered down behind the shelves and decided to wait it out.

“ _Except_ what do you know, I’m just sitting there mindin' my business, and I hear… _kissing_. I don’t dare move, cause if the Duke finds me there like a peeping tom I’m ruined for sure, so I had to stay very still and very quiet, and listen to em…” She cocked her head meaningfully and made a rude gesture. Elias slapped a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing out loud, and Ariadne gave him a smack of her own. “Don’t _laugh_ , it was terrifying!”

“How long did it go on for?” Elias inquired without an ounce of shame. “Back on our longer marches it seemed like it lasted for hours.”

Ariadne squeaked, mortified, then dissolved into giggles. “I’m sure I don’t know,” she gasped. “Just when it was getting loud I managed to slip out the window onto the terrace. I won’t be tellin' Mrs. Featherby, but the dusting is going to have to wait til next week!”

Elias _did_ laugh, then, so loud that one of the other maids poked her head in to see what was so funny. But they waved her off, and when they’d caught their breath Elias took her hand and they solemnly swore to never tell another soul—although he suspected Ariadne would not be keeping her end of the bargain, and he didn’t blame her. It was just too bloody amusing.

“They surely are in love,” she sighed at last, gathering his tea leavings to take back downstairs. “I didn’t think—well, you know, there were rumors about Mr. Sylvain…”

“People will always talk,” Elias said, “and I suppose we can’t stop em. But Lord Gautier is one of the most devoted men I know. The were inseparable there toward the end—there were bets on how long it would take them to tie the knot.”

“Oh, aye? And what did you put your money on?”

“I thought they’d do it before the war ended,” he sighed, “so I lost a bullion and a half, but I can’t be angry about it. They’re too damn sickeningly sweet together, not a soul could begrudge them happiness. Not after what they’ve been through.”

If Ariadne heard the wistful tone of his voice, she made no mention. “I’ll be seeing you in a few hours for supper then, Mr. Corrim. I thank ye for a listening ear.”

“Of course, Miss Ari.” He inclined his head gravely, the closest thing to a bow he could manage. “I look forward to it.”

_The Fraldarius Estate kitchens, Winter 1188_

“My Lord! Beg pardon, but this is _quite_ irregular—”

“Nevermind, Mrs. Crocombe, it’s quite all right. I won’t disturb you. Just a little table out of the way…”

Yuki kept her head down and chopped a little faster, eyes wide to keep her peripherals open—the better to take in the little drama unfolding in the kitchens. Across the table from her, Henriette was also staring, with a great deal less subtlety, as Lord Gautier gentled the prickly cook into giving him some space to work.

In the six months since being hired at Fraldarius House, Yuki had seen a great deal of unusual things. Very… _un-noble-like_ things. Things like the Duke kissing his tall gingery bear of a husband in plain view of their guests, or Lord Sylvain sneaking Yuletide treats to some of the staff’s younger children. They were, without a doubt, the oddest aristocrats she’d ever worked for, but also the best employers. And besides, their oddities only made for amusing stories to bring home to her parents and younger siblings when she went home on weekends.

This was, however, the first time Yuki had seen either of them in the kitchens. She supposed the blame for that lay at Mrs. Crocombe’s door. She was a fearsome woman, though fair, steely-eyed and buxom as any warship setting sail for ruin or prosperity. She ruled her little kingdom with an iron fist and pockets full of sweets for the young ones, and any who dared trespass into her territory needed a good reason. Yuki fully expected Lord Sylvain to be turned away, regardless of rank, but at last he bowed and said something quietly to her that Yuki couldn’t make out, and Mrs. Crocombe withered before the force of his charm.

“Very well,” she sniffed, and turned her eye across the goggling kitchen staff. “Yuki!” She jumped. “See to whatever it is Lord Sylvain requires. Henriette, take over her duties, the pastry’s been rolled thin enough to cover the whole countryside by now.”

Henriette, who had indeed over-rolled the pastry for tonight’s fish pie, flushed a deep red and scurried around the table to take Yuki’s place. Nervously, Yuki wiped her hands clean on her apron and bobbed a curtsy to the Duke’s husband.

“At your service, m’lord.”

“At ease, Miss Yuki. I don’t need much help, but if you could point me in the direction of the vegetables and perhaps some mushrooms, I would be very grateful.”

Yuki showed him the ice room, where harvested vegetables were stored, and the root cellar, which was divided into storage for wine and special wooden racks for growing fungi. An easy enough task, but when she hovered by him long enough, he also ended up requesting a pot of hot soup stock, rice noodles, and various dips and sauces. When everything was done, Yuki pressganged one of the kitchen boys into helping cart the lot upstairs to the Duke’s personal sitting room, where a low table was waiting with cushions instead of chairs.

A suspicion that had been gathering in Yuki’s mind coalesced, and she hid a smile as Lord Sylvain fussed with the presentation of each item.

“Is there some special occasion?” she asked. An impertinent question, Mrs. Featherby would no doubt declare, but she’d been on the receiving end of Lord Sylvain’s gentlemanly kindness for over two hours now, and had no fear in asking it.

“You must promise not to breathe a word,” he cautioned, with a gleam of good humor in his eye, “but it’s the Duke’s birthday, and I wanted to do something… special. I talked with Shamir—er, a friend of ours from Dagda, and she advised me on putting this together.” He stood back, observing the steaming soup pot and all the ingredients laid out in a careful circle around it. “Do you think it looks all right?”

“It looks delicious,” Yuki promised him earnestly. “Perhaps for next time you might consider prawns, or dumplings—”

“Dumplings! Ah, dammit, I knew there was more to it than vegetables.”

“It’s perfect as it is!” she rushed to assure him, feeling guilty at the downcast expression on his boyish face. “I’m sure His Grace will adore it. I’m still rather new here, but I understand his mother was Dagdan.”

“Yeah. Thus all the recent… renovations. I think he wants to bring a bit of her spirit back into the house.” Lord Sylvain looked painfully serious for a moment, and Yuki wondered if she’d been too forward. But then he brightened and presented her with a deep bow. “Thank you for your assistance, Miss Yuki, it’s been invaluable—”

He was cut off by the door opening and a soft gasp. They both turned, and Yuki dropped into a curtsy to see the Duke himself standing there, dressed simply, with flecks of hay stuck to his breeches.

“Sylvain.” His voice was curt and difficult to read. “What’s all this?”

“A surprise! I know you said you didn’t care to celebrate, but, well. I do care.” Lord Sylvain sounded a bit as though he were preparing for a tongue-lashing. But, whether due to Yuki’s presence or some other reason, the Duke only hummed curiously and came further into the room.

“This is hot pot,” the Duke said after a moment of inspection.

“Just so. I did—well, part of it. Yuki really put most of it together. So if it’s terrible, you know who to blame—I’m kidding! I’m kidding,” Lord Sylvain said hastily, even as the blood drained from Yuki’s face.

“You’re incorrigible,” the Duke snapped. He then turned to Yuki with a surprisingly soft look on his face. “Please don’t listen to my idiot husband. And… thank you for this. I remember this dish being a favorite of my mother’s. I don’t think I’ve had it since I was out of leading strings.”

Yuki bobbed another quick curtsy. “Happy to be of service, Your Grace. I’ll let Mrs. Crocombe know that all the terrorizing was worth it.”

“ _Terrorizing_?” the Duke echoed, once more turning the full force of his ire on his quailing husband. “We’ll discuss this over lunch, my love.”

Never had Yuki heard those words uttered with such deadly precision, or to such devastating effect. She only made it as far as the front hall before dissolving into helpless giggles.

_The Fraldarius Estate guest wing, Autumn 1187_

“Oh, bugger and blast it.”

“Harry!” Yuki laughed. “Your mouth!”

Henriette heaved a sigh and glared at the short straw, drawn unluckily from the pile. “You’d swear too, if you had to be on collection duty. Today, of all days.”

“What’s today?” Alice inquired. She was the newest to their little cohort, older than the rest with babes of her own, but with a frank, mischievous spirit that slid easily in with the other three.

“His Grace has guests staying til the end of the week,” Ariande explained, twirling her own perfectly long straw between her smug little fingers. “ _Important_ ones.”

“Aye, Mrs. Featherby briefed all of us. What’s to fuss over? They’re not horrid, are they?”

“Oh, not at all. They’re quite lovely, really—quite _unusual_.” Ariadne put a particular spin on the word that seemed to encapsulate a whole host of meanings, at least half of them scandalous in nature. “And quite in love.”

“I shall need to wear my gloves today, I think,” Henriette said glumly. “I suppose I should be happy for them, still goin’ at it like rabbits even after all this time—”

“ _Harry_ ,” Yuki chided, just as the door to the scullery swung open and Mrs. Crocombe’s imposing form hoved into view. The four girls sprang to their feet, stuffing their straws into pockets and petticoats as the matron’s eye scoured them suspiciously.

“Breakfast is about to be laid,” she said at last, crisp but not accusatory. “Best get on with your duties, ladies.”

“Yes marm,” they mumbled in unison. They each bobbed a curtsey and filed out, Henrietta last. She was _not_ dragging her feet. She wasn’t.

In truth there was less to complain about than there’d been a few years ago. Since settling into Fraldarius House, the Duke and his husband had made a great many clever modifications to the place which made all their lives easier, one of them being chutes that hid behind the wall and went from the upper floors all the way down to the laundry. Before then, a girl had to cart the soiled linens up and down the stairs by hand, doing her best to keep out of sight—no one, but especially not nobles, liked to see the help ferrying about used bedding in broad daylight.

These days, all that needed doing was to strip the beds and bundle the whole lot down the chute located helpfully at the end of the hall. Of course, the stripping still had to be done by hand. With grim determination, Henriette pulled on her washing gloves and got to work.

The first room wasn’t horrid. Judging by the perfume bottles on the vanity and the boots by the door, Ser Ingrid was staying in this suite with her wife, the famous opera singer. This was not the first time they’d stayed at Fraldarius for an extended period of time, and Henriette knew them to be quite fastidious, laying down towels and generally keeping their room neat and clean. She supposed, begrudgingly, that if _she_ were a lady knight married to a beautiful opera singer, she would also be fucking her silly whenever they were alone.

Such fanciful musings kept her warmly occupied as she stripped the bed to the mattress, gathered everything in the bottom sheet, and stuffed the lot down the laundry chute. However, her motivation had started to peter out by the time she arrived at the next room. The guests here were also known to her, and tended to enjoy themselves together _quite_ thoroughly almost every night. Repeatedly, given the… stains.

She’d almost completed the unfortunate task when the door swung open unexpectedly and a short, dark-haired gentleman strode in. Face burning, Henriette leapt to attention and dropped into a low curtsy, hardly daring to breathe.

“Forgive me, Highness,” she managed to eke out while the bloody _King of Almyra_ stared at her, seemingly as surprised to see her as she was to see him.

“Please, don’t apologize. You’re only doing your job, I’m sorry for interrupting.” He glanced at the bed, bared to the mattress, and blanched. “And a thankless task it is. I must apologize again, for our enthusiastic… er…”

All Henriette’s nerves flew out the window at his fumbling, and she bobbed another, more cheerful, curtsy. “Please don’t worry yourself, m’lord, with the Duke and his husband in residence I’m quite used to it.”

The king stared at her a moment, jaw agape, then burst into laughter. “Indeed, I expect you are. Even so, I don’t envy you. Here.” He reached a hand into his purse and produced some coin, which he tucked into her hand without preamble. “An apology, and a promise to do better.”

Henriette was too polite to check what sort of coinage was currently burning a hole into the palm of her hand. She only bobbed again and said, “Thank you, m’lord, but I expect Lord Gloucester won’t be particularly pleased.”

The king laughed again. “I’ll talk him around. I can be persuasive when needs must. Now, seeing as I’m sufficiently flustered into forgetting what it was I came here for in the first place, I will bid you good morning.”

He bowed—actually _bowed_ , to _her_ —and departed swiftly, leaving Henriette in the middle of the room feeling quite flustered herself.

When she remembered to look in her pocket later, she found two gold Almyran doubloons glinting cheekily at her. Apology, indeed.

_The Fraldarius Estate master suite, Spring 1190_

The tiny Fraldarius heir blinked up at Alice with enormous brown eyes as she bore her to the corner of the master bedroom, well-wrapped in swaddling. For such a young creature, little Thomasina had a potent stare. And stare she did, quite solemnly, as Alice settled behind the painted paper screen and let down her bodice for nursing.

Dawn’s first light had hardly crested the horizon by the time Thomasina started suckling, but Alice heard the shifting of bedsheets and the low, sleepy grumbles of the Duke rising from his bed to visit the washroom. When he returned a few minutes later, he paused by the screen, tucking his dressing gown around himself more securely. “Thank you, Alice. I’m sorry for the early hour.”

“It’s no trouble at all, Your Grace,” Alice whispered. “She’s a babe—time of day makes no mind to them.”

The Duke gave a slow nod and left her to it. Thanks to the angle of the screen, she could still make out his slight figure as he went to draw the curtain wider. And she could see it when his husband rose from bed and moved behind him, wrapping him in his thickset arms with a tenderness that fair pricked her eyes.

The sun lifted further into the sky, inch by inch. Thomasina finished her breakfast and submitted quietly to being burped while her fathers proceeded with their morning ritual: the Duke, seated in a comfortable chair overlooking the back gardens, while his husband unplaited his loose black braid and began to brush the night’s tangles from it. It was a simple thing, but they did it nearly every morning while Thomasina nursed, and so Alice bore witness to it as she had each morning for the two weeks since Thomasina had been brought into the world.

Though they had fought a war together, grown up together, battled older brothers and the demands of a harsh country together, Alice had never seen the two men so gentle with each other. The Duke’s famously sharp tongue softened in these early hours with his husband—though he would surely hone it against him later—and Lord Sylvain handled him in turn as if he were made of spun sugar, or the finest stained glass. In some ways he reminded her of her own man, her Pietro, but there was another layer of intimacy between them in these early hours, a shared quiet that could only have been born from shared strife. And Alice respected it. No matter how her friends teased and pressed her for details about the Duke’s bedchambers, she took her duties very seriously. This private part of their relationship—the quiet, the soft rasp of horsehair bristles through long black locks, the murmurs of inaudible devotion—she would take with her to the grave.

_The Fraldarius Estate gardens, Summer 1196_

“Hah! Hai- _yah_! On guard, fiend!”

“It’s pronounced _en garde_ , Thomasina,” the Duke called lazily from the veranda. Unfortunately, his instruction was drowned out by the furious clacking of wooden sticks and the shrill battle-cries of two small girls locked in mortal combat.

Luckily, their trainer was nearer at hand to make corrections. “Keep your elbow up, Miss Hanako,” Elias said, leaning slightly on his cane. “You must protect that pretty face of yours.”

Three-year-old Hanako cared little for looks, or for the state of her elbow. With a wild screech, she charged at her older sister, who just barely managed to parry with a grimace worthy of a salty seadog ten times her age.

“Excellent parry, Miss Thomasina,” Elias intoned.

This mock battle went on for a short while longer, until Thomasina landed a hearty smack to her sister’s arm, whereupon Hanako promptly sat heavily on the ground and began to cry. Elias was less well-equipped to deal with a distraught toddler, but luckily Lord Sylvain materialized almost instantly at her side, with enough sweeties and handkerchiefs to placate an _army_ of three-year-olds. The Duke was not far behind him, though he held back from comforting the wee girl and instead offered his elder daughter a handshake of approval before coming to stand beside their trainer.

“Their technique is coming along nicely,” Elias said by way of making conversation. Even after serving under his command, and now working as the fencing and archery and riding tutor for his offspring, he still found Felix a difficult read. “Thomasina has a bit of an advantage in reach and in coordination, but Hanako is the most determined child I’ve ever met.”

Felix nodded, watching as Thomasina plucked a yellow dandelion and offered it to her sister as penance. “Hanako will be the superior swordswoman, I think. But already I see a fondness for riding in Thomasina that reminds me frighteningly of her aunt.”

“Ser Ingrid?” Elias offered. “Aye, there is a healthy dose of hero-worship there. As Hanako worships you.”

For the first time that he can recall, Elias watched Felix’s calm face crack with surprise. “Beg your pardon?”

“Is it not obvious, m’lord? She mimics everything you do.” Elias laughed. “If you’re not careful she’ll start telling off your husband the way you do, and I’m not sure he’ll ever recover.”

Felix’s surprise bled into a reluctant smile as the husband in question plopped little Hanako onto his shoulders and began leading the way back to the house for tea. “Perhaps you’re right. Though I’ve rather gotten into the habit—I fear curtailing my tongue now would cause him more shock than the alternative.”

On the veranda, Lord Sylvain stopped and turned to wave them down. Elias saluted with his cane. “I believe we’re being summoned.”

“So we are.” Felix rescued Hanako’s abandoned sword-stick and tucked it into his belt. “Will you join us, Corrim?”

“I thank you for the invitation, but I must get on back to the missus.”

“Your wife is expecting, is she not?”

“Aye, m’lord. Any day now.”

“My condolences,” Felix said, straight-faced, before cracking a smile. “In seriousness, I’m happy for you. You’re excellent with the girls—I have no doubt you’ll make a wonderful father.”

Bowing while walking was too complicated a feat for Elias’ prosthetic, so instead he nodded deeply, swallowing past the unexpected lump that rose to his throat. “Thank you. It means a great deal to hear you say that.”

“I’m sure Mori has already told you, but to reiterate: please take as much time off as you need. The first few months are… strenuous. Particularly when it’s your first.” He nodded toward the table spread with teatime goodies, where Thomasina was showing Hanako how to sneak cherries off the trifle while Sylvain pretended not to notice. “The girls will miss you, but I’ll assure them it’s a most worthwhile endeavor. That you’re off slaying dragons, perhaps.”

“Worthwhile indeed. They’re good girls, m’lord.” Elias bowed again, preparing to take his leave. “You’ve done well with em.”

The Duke’s face softened as he gazed at his little family, boisterous and happy in the veranda’s shade, untouched by hardship or strife. “We are determined to give them a better childhood than we were afforded. This is what we fought for, when we were young. It was so horrible at the time, but now I look at them and think… it was worth it. It was all worth it.”

Elias followed his gaze, but his mind was elsewhere: on a little cottage warmed by the sun where Ari was baking bread, where his garden was flourishing—where, Goddess willing, he’d raise a family of his own with the shadow of war far behind them.

“Enjoy your tea, my lord,” he said at last. If the Duke heard the emotion lodged like a stone in his throat, His Grace was kind enough not to mention it.

_fin._


End file.
